


The Space Between Us

by Herenya_writes



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bones is a Good Friend, Happy Ending, Jim doesn't take care of himself, M/M, So Spock does it for him, They aren't together yet, They're space boyfriends, but everyone knows, but not too much Angst, mostly pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:08:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22296070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herenya_writes/pseuds/Herenya_writes
Summary: Jim is a starship captain. That means it's his job to keep his people safe, even when there isn't supposed to be any trouble. And that applies to everyone. Even Spock. Especially Spock.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 39
Kudos: 284





	The Space Between Us

**Author's Note:**

> Alrighty, I wanted to write some Spirk for the New Year, and it's still January so it counts! Right? Anyway, the prompt for this came from nightlybirdie on Tumblr who requested a fic where Jim has to leave Spock behind. Here's my take on that.

Jim wasn't sure he had ever seen this much glass in his entire life. Instead of a few large windows to let in the natural light of the planet Ylliar III, the arching walls were nothing but windows, crystal clear glass. The ceiling as well was pure glass, although it varied in color, reminding Jim of the stained glass windows that were found in some ancient churches on Earth. He could just make out the stars through the translucent material. It was incredible, although if someone had asked, he might have admitted to a feeling of unease. If there were an earthquake or something, everyone would be dodging falling shards of glass.

Any further thoughts about his surroundings were cut off when a friendly hand clapped on his shoulder. He turned around and saw Bones smiling at him. "Quite the waiting room, huh?" the doctor chuckled, gesturing to the large rectangular room. It was thirty meters long and at least twelve meters wide filled with a variety of seating options scattered across the sleek marble floor. "I still can't believe the High King invited us down here to celebrate a wedding, and then didn't let us attend the actual event."

Jim smiled and shrugged. "Well, different cultures have different ways of doing things. Besides, I'm fairly certain the actual ceremony isn't anything you would want to see, Bones." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and the doctor rolled his eyes. "It should be over soon, though."

"It better be; I'm starving," the man grouched good-naturedly. "There is a feast after this, isn't there?"

Jim chuckled and nodded. "Yes, and then a ball.” He smirked at his friend. “Hope you brought your dancing shoes, doctor."

"Me? Dance? I don't think so. Even if there are some rather gorgeous women here..." Bones' voice faded away, and Jim just chuckled again. He couldn't really blame the doctor though; the people of Ylliar III were rather stunning. 

They were humanoid, but their skin was marbled as if they had been carved by some great sculptor. The colors in their skin ranged from person to person, but Jim had seen varying shades of black, grey, white, pink, blue, and brown. They had no hair, but many wore elaborate headpieces that seemed to signify their social rank in some way. What would that be like, he wondered, to have his rank designated by how big of a hat he wore? 

His absent-minded musings were interrupted by the sound of a deep voice coming from behind him. "It is rather fascinating, is it not, Captain?"

Jim whirled around to find Spock standing a few steps away from him, hands clasped behind his back in a parade-rest stance, looking perfectly at ease with his surroundings. Jim spotted Bones heading away toward where Uhura and Sulu stood, and he shook his head inwardly. Then, he turned his attention back to his First Officer.

"To what are you referring, Commander?" Jim asked in a voice that could probably be described as teasing. "There are a number of subjects to choose from our surroundings."

Spock inclined his head slightly in a gesture that Jim had come to recognize as one of concession. "Indeed there are. My subject was the physiological makeup of the citizens of Ylliar III. We have encountered a number of humanoid species in our travel, but they are quite unique among them."

Jim glanced about the large room. There were about a hundred or so Ylliarites mingling among the dozen Enterprise members that Jim had brought down, along with a few ambassadors from other planets in the Federation, and they were quite distinct. Even those without elaborate headpieces drew his eye.

"They remind me of living statues—like in the Greek myths," he said, turning his gaze back to Spock. "Nearly flawless."

Something flitted in Spock's eyes, but Jim didn't have the chance to identify it—something he thought he was getting better at with each passing day he spent in Spock's company—before it was smothered. "Yes, I believe that most Ylliarites meet every aspect of the 'perfect man' as defined by your ancient Earth philosophers." Spock's voice was a little more empty than it had been, and Jim was about to question what was bothering him when the crystal doors at the end of the room swung open, and two Ylliarites stepped through hand in hand, a small entourage following them, including High King Hamzill.

"Praise the Sky, my son has claimed his mate! May their union be forever blessed!" the High King declared, gesturing to the two men in front of him. They raised their clasped hands to the sky, and the Ylliarites in the room shouted their praises. Then, two people in scarlet robes stepped forward, each bearing a circlet of twisted metal and gemstones. The circlets were placed on their bare heads, and the Ylliarites cheered again. 

Then, the one on the newly-crowned man on the right stepped forward slightly, never letting go of his mate's hand, and began to speak. "Friends, I thank you for being here today to share in my happiness. I know many of you have endured a long journey to be here, and so I ask that you join me and my husband in a feast of celebration." His eyes roamed the crowd before coming to a halt on Jim. "I also ask that the Captain of the Enterprise and his officers join me at my private table."

Jim bowed low and nodded, praying that those two gestures together would convey his acceptance without him having to shout across the large room. Thankfully, the prince—Rafee, if Jim remembered the briefing correctly—seemed to understand. His entourage began moving through the crowd to the door that would lead to the feasting hall.

"Well, Commander, it seems we're to be special guests tonight," Jim said with a smile, turning back to the Vulcan. "I hope you're hungry."

Spock only raised an eyebrow in reply.

. . .

The feast was fabulous. Bones had checked and rechecked all of the food before he let Jim eat anything, but it had all turned out to be safe for humans, and Jim in particular, to consume. It was all delicious and there were vegetarian options for Spock as well, which Jim could tell the Vulcan greatly appreciated.

Jim and Spock had ended up sitting across the table from each other and down a few seats, with Jim situated between Bones and Prince Rafee's husband, who Jim had learned was named Tyr. Spock sat between the High King and Uhura, and he was currently engrossed in a conversation with both of them that seemed to be about the various dialects that could be found across Ylliar III. 

"He is quite astute," a deep voice at Jim’s side remarked. "I can see why you would choose him as your First."

Jim blinked, pulling his eyes away from Spock to focus on Lord Tyr who was looking at him with approving eyes. "Ah, yes. Well, Commander Spock is one of the brightest minds in the 'Fleet, and I count myself lucky that he chose to remain as the Enterprise's First Officer instead of accepting a ship of his own."

Tyr raised a chiseled eyebrow. "Commander Spock rejected captaincy?"

Jim nodded, understanding the man's disbelief. He still had trouble believing it some days; Spock was more than qualified, and a ship in his care would surely be one of the best in Starfleet. "Yes, several times in fact. He says he has no desire to be a captain." Jim laughed lightly. "I think he also might worry that I'd blow up the Enterprise without him by my side."

The eyebrow crept a little higher.

"It's not that I'm an incompetent captain," Jim hurried to explain, a slight blush tinting his cheeks. "But I can be a little reckless, and Spock does a good job of keeping my harebrained schemes in check."

Tyr nodded, an understanding light coming to his violet eyes. "It is important that two people who work so closely together balance one another. It is something that I am grateful to have attained with Prince Rafee, and it is clear that you and Commander Spock have found it as well.”

Jim nodded, a distant smile on his face as he watched Spock raise an eyebrow in that way he always did when he found something pleasantly surprising. “Yes, we have.”

The conversation turned to other things then, and Jim spent a quarter of an hour discussing fruit with Bones and the Ylliarite noblewoman across from him. Then, someone rang a bell, and the large dining hall—there were four other long tables that were completely filled with people, more than had been there when the feast began—fell silent. 

From his place at the center of the table next to Spock, High King Hamzill rose. "Friends, please, join us for an evening of music and dance!” his voice boomed across the hall. “Life is something to be celebrated with good food and good music!" Then, the Ylliarites at the high table rose, and Jim quickly followed their lead out another set of large crystal doors to the ballroom beyond.

. . .

Spock was not overly fond of dancing, although he had brought and was now wearing gloves which would allow him to minimize contact with anyone who might request a dance of him. The Ylliar people were psi-null as humans were, but Spock did not want to take any chances and accidentally cause offense.

He lingered on the edge of the dance floor at a table with Lieutenant Uhura and Commander Scott who were both taking a break from dancing for a time. His gaze, however, was fixed not on the two Enterprise members, who were idly chatting, but on the dancers in the center of the oval-shaped room.

"I never knew that he could dance," Lieutenant Uhura stated as the current song reached its crescendo, and Spock did not have to ask to whom she referred. Although there were four other male members of the Enterprise—including Doctor McCoy who had previously expressed his distaste for the act—dancing in the center of the room, only one was spinning across the floor in a way that instantly grabbed the attention of whoever’s field of vision he happened into.

"Aye. The Captain has plenty of tricks up his sleeve, it seems." The Scotsman did not sound particularly surprised, but a glance at the raised eyebrow and smirk on the engineer's face told Spock that he was both surprised and proud of the Captain’s heretofore unknown ability.

"What about you, Commander Spock? Did you know the Captain could dance?" Lieutenant Uhura asked, smiling slightly. 

Spock shook his head. "I did not, although it is logical that he would have learned to do so at some point in his command training. As a captain, he is expected to represent Starfleet and the Federation well in a number of situations, including social gatherings such as this one."

"Mr. Spock, there is a difference between learnin' to dance, and dancin', and what the Captain is doing there is dancin'," Commander Scott declared, and although Spock did not truly understand the nature of the statement, he couldn't help but nod. The Captain was gracefully gliding across the floor, now with a new partner in his arms as the song had changed during the course of their discussion.

"You should ask him for a dance," Lieutenant Uhura suggested as they watched the Captain twirl a Ylliarite noblewoman with expert poise.

Spock raised an eyebrow, instantly dismissing the idea. "My own talents lie outside the realm of dancing," he replied, his eyes never leaving the Captain as he swirled around the dance floor to the beat of the music, the medals adorning his formal uniform glinting in the light.

"Nonsense. You can't tell me that the son of an ambassador never learned to dance, Commander."

"I did not say that I never learned. I am simply not as talented as the Captain," he corrected, and he was somewhat ashamed to hear the shortness in his tone that he had not intended to convey. "If you will excuse me, High King Hamzill suggested that I visit the reflection pool in the gardens before the night is over." He rose from his seat and quickly made for the open doors that led to the vibrant garden outside, ignoring the meaningful glance that Lieutenant Uhura gave the Commander as he did so. 

. . .

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim saw Spock leave the ballroom through a set of open doors. They led to the garden if Jim remembered correctly, and he wasn’t surprised that Spock had abandoned a room full of loud people standing far too close to one another for the cool calm of a garden. No, he wasn’t surprised, but he was...disappointed. Not that he had a reason to be, but, well, he had hoped that the Vulcan would dance with someone. And he had hoped even more that that someone would be him.

His crush on his First Officer was ridiculous, of course, not to mention risky. If he and Spock were to ever be a...thing and then it went wrong, it was possible that their working relationship would suffer and by extension the ship, and neither of them would ever want something like that to happen. That was what his brain told him. His heart had decided to pointedly ignore that advice and fall head over heels for the Vulcan.

“May I have your hand in a dance, Captain Kirk?” a deep voice asked, and Jim blinked himself out of his thoughts to focus on the Ylliarite that had appeared in front of him while he was lost in his daydream.

“Prince Rafee!” Jim exclaimed, bowing low to cover his embarrassment. “I am surprised you are not dancing with Lord Tyr.”

The prince smiled, and Jim could easily see how someone could fall for charm such as his. “Tyr told me that he enjoyed conversing with you, and so I decided to seek you out myself. However,” Rafee paused and looked him over for a moment, onyx eyes roving over him and seeming to peek into his soul. “It seems that your mind is elsewhere. Your First Officer?”

Jim decided not to ask how the prince knew exactly where his mind was. Instead, he simply nodded. “I apologize. I would be honored to dance with you if you wish,” he declared with an honest smile, pushing his thoughts of Spock to the back of his mind.

To his surprise, the prince shook his head. “No. Go and seek out your First Officer and enjoy the night. We are here to celebrate love, Captain, I will not keep you from yours.”

Jim’s eyes widened. “I’m not—Spock and me—We aren’t—Commander Spock doesn’t feel that way about me, my prince.” That was the truth, and Jim knew it, but he was surprised by how powerful the pang in his chest was as he said the words.

Prince Rafee was not impressed by his declaration. He raised a chiseled eyebrow—much like his husband’s—and shook his head. “Go,” he said, the edge of an order to the word. “Go and find him.”

Jim looked at the prince for a few more seconds before nodding firmly, turning on his heel, and striding across the room to the open doors that led to the garden.

. . .

The garden and reflection pools were aesthetically pleasing, and their quieting atmosphere was far superior to the chaos of the ballroom behind him. Spock had wandered the garden for a few minutes, cataloging the various species of plant that he saw, mentally making a list of the ones he wanted to research when he returned to the Enterprise. Then, he had made his way to the reflection pool in the center of the garden.

The pool was rectangular in shape, long and narrow. It was surrounded by a walking path made of white sand, and the plants beyond the path were all varying shades of blue. Combined, the elements served to create shadowy surroundings separated by a stark line, isolating the pool. 

Lit only by a few of the floating glass lights that were also found in the ballroom, the garden was dim, and the pool was able to reflect the light of the stars above with near-perfect accuracy. The sky was remarkably clear in the capital city of Ylliar III, a sign that even before joining the Federation 5.79 years ago the people were conscious of the environment. 

As his mind wandered, Spock sat upon the sand, his legs crossed. It was easy to achieve a quiet state of mind here despite the background noise that came from the open doors. He could picture them clearly despite the fact that his back was turned to them. Light flooding from the ballroom, creating a polygon of light on the sand pathway, and inside, people—his Captain—swirling across the floor to the beat of the music.

It was concerning, how often his mind would drift to his Captain whenever he gave it the freedom to wander. Concerning, but also natural. James Tiberius Kirk was like the sun, exerting a gravitational force so powerful that Spock had little choice in being dragged toward him. Not that he was complaining, however. In fifty years—if he survived that long—he would still look back on his time by Jim’s side as the best years of his life. Perhaps it was illogical to believe something with as much surety as he did considering he did not know what his future would hold, but he doubted there was anything in the universe that could outshine his Captain.

Soft footsteps on the sand a few meters behind him pulled Spock from his thoughts. He placed his hands into the sand to push himself up out of his cross-legged position, but a soft voice stopped him. 

“Don’t bother standing on my account, Mr. Spock,” the captain said, and even without turning Spock knew there was a smile on his lips. A few seconds later, the ground near Spock shifted, and the captain sat down, copying Spock’s position. 

“Are you enjoying the festivities, Captain?” he asked, keeping his tone as neutral as he could manage. Typically it was a simple matter to exert that level of control over his voice, but nothing about his captain and his own control around the man was simple.

Jim glanced at him, and for a brief moment Spock could read the concern on his open face, but then his expression morphed into a smile as he nodded. “I am. The Ylliarites are hospitable, none of my crew has been shot at or kidnapped, and I haven’t been asked to marry anyone for the sake of inter-galactic politics. All in all, I’d say this has been a pretty good trip.”

“Indeed.”

“The Prince and his husband are interesting people. Tyr told me that once Rafee is king, they plan to slowly convert the planet to a more democratic form of government, which the High King supports. It would be—” Spock smiled at the enthusiasm in his captain’s voice. The man had always stated that he hated politics, but no one could deny that he had a talent for them. It was just another of the traits that made him one of the greatest—in Spock’s eyes he far outshone the others—captains in the ‘Fleet. His ability to adjust to other cultures was astounding, and often it came from him simply observing the inhabitants of the planet rather than from the briefing or accounts of others. 

“Spock? Spock?” The Vulcan blinked and realized that his thoughts had drowned out his captain’s words. Jim’s eyebrows were drawn together, and Spock could read concern in his pinched mouth. “You didn’t hear anything I just said, did you?”

Spock shook his head, fighting down the blood that threatened to color his cheeks and the tips of his ears green. “No, sir. I apologize.”

Jim shook his head with a smile. “I know we’re technically on duty, but we’re sitting in the garden outside of a ball, Spock. You can drop the sirs and captains.”

The blush was getting harder to control. “Very well, Jim,” he conceded. “My apology, however, still stands. It seems my thoughts—as humans might say—got away from me.”

Jim raised an eyebrow and his smile widened. It was a brilliant thing, Jim’s smile. The garden was dark, but Spock felt as if it were as bright as noon-day as he basked in that expression. “That must be a first,” Jim said. “What were you thinking about?”

At that question, Spock had difficulty not looking away from Jim’s kind but searching eyes. “It was nothing of importance,” he said finally, and as the words left his lips he knew how unbelievable they sounded.

“Oh? I highly doubt that, Mr. Spock.”

“I was merely reflecting,” Spock said quietly, praying that the man would not push the issue. His attraction to his captain was illogical and dangerous. He had only recently—3.21 weeks ago to be precise—managed to properly identify his emotions toward his captain. He had known for some time that they went beyond mere friendship, but finding a word in Standard to describe the emotions swirling in his stomach had proven a difficult task. Finally, he had settled on the word ‘love’. It both seemed like too much and not enough to define his emotions, but he knew enough to realize that his emotions were inappropriate.

He could not be in love with his captain. There were a multitude of reasons why, including the negative impact a relationship could have on the Enterprise and the simple fact that he was not, in any way, Jim’s ‘type’. The simple reality was that it was far better to simply ignore the emotions he felt and leave them for analysis when he was in the safety of his own quarters.

Jim was about to reply when they were interrupted by the sound of quick feet on the sand. They both turned to see a Ylliarite noblewoman, whose light blue cheeks were flushed with what Spock suspected to be a mixture of exerting herself on the dancefloor and her consumption of one too many drinks. 

“Captain Kirk,” she said, bowing slightly. “Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

Jim’s gaze caught Spock’s, and the Vulcan could read uncertainty and conflict there, so he nodded slightly. His captain deserved to spend the evening enjoying the ball and dancing, not sitting in the garden with him, especially not when Spock’s mind was drifting to the point of ignoring the man in front of him.

Finally, Jim broke their gaze and turned to the woman. “The honor is mine, my lady,” he declared as he rose. Spock watched them walk back to the ballroom arm in arm and was powerless to stop the clenching of his heart at the sight. If he had been human he might have sighed. Instead, he simply turned back to the reflection pool and allowed his thoughts to wander once again.

. . .

Jim was tired. He had danced with so many people that he had lost count—none of those people had been Spock, but he was very firmly not thinking about that—and his arms and legs were actually starting to ache. The ball had been going on for a little over three hours by now, and it was getting to the point that Jim was ready to start rounding up his crew so that they could all return to the Enterprise. He would have to go and say goodbye to the High King first though...

As another socialite caught his eye and smiled at him from across the room, Jim decided that he really didn’t want to stay any longer. His eyes scanned the ballroom, briefly falling on Spock who had emerged from the garden at some point and now seemed to be in conversation with Lord Tyr. He appeared interested in what the man was saying and was nodding along—as much as Spock nodded at least. He forced himself to keep his gaze moving, and eventually, he spotted the High King on the other side of the room, talking with Uhura and his son.

A few minutes later, Jim stepped up to the small group, placing a hand on Uhura’s shoulder. “Your majesty, your highness,” he said, nodding deeply to each in turn. “I am afraid that my crew and I must return to the Enterprise. Most of us have Alpha duty in a few hours.”

The High King nodded. “That is understandable. Please extend my thanks to those who allowed you to be present for my son’s wedding today,” he requested.

“I will,” Jim assured and then turned to the prince. “Congratulations on your union, Prince Rafee.”

The man bowed his head slightly. “Thank you, Captain. May you find similar happiness.”

Jim was about to reply—the prince had obviously realized that Spock had not returned to dance with him earlier—when a loud crack rang through the ballroom, causing the band to fall silent and the dancers to stumble mid-twirl. He looked around for the source of the sound, his eyes scanning the confused faces of the ball goers and the various entrances, looking for some hint of the cause. Nothing. Before he could turn back to the High King, however, a second crack shattered the still air, even louder than the first, and the three dozen glass orbs that had floated above the ball all night came crashing to the ground.

“Move!” he yelled, lunging to the side to push Uhura out of the way of the light that had been hovering a couple of meters above her head. It hit the polished floor and shattered, spraying glass in a meter radius.

“Are you okay, Lieutenant?” he asked her, looking into her eyes and giving her something to focus on that wasn’t the screaming that had erupted the instant the glass had fallen.

Uhura’s long nails dug into his skin through the sleeve of his shirt, but she nodded anyway. Slowly, Jim let go of her, and the woman straightened and took a deep breath, a calm settling over her. Once she was back in the mode of a Starfleet Officer, he said,

“Take the High King and the Prince and get them aboard the Enterprise. If this is an attack, they are probably the targets. I’m going to get everyone else away from the building. I saw a defensible-looking courtyard a block away when we first came to the city.”

The woman nodded, no trace of fear or shock in her face. “Will do, Captain. Be safe.” Jim nodded, and Uhura turned to the High King and Prince, both of whom seemed to still be in shock. As she began to lead them toward the nearest exit, Jim stepped toward the middle of the room.

The falling orbs had severely damaged the floor, and large cracks were slowly webbing their way across the ballroom. If the floor took much more stress it was possible that the supports that held up the ceiling would give way as well and send a hailstorm of glass shards pummeling to the ground. He had to get everyone out of here before that happened.

“Attention, everyone!” he shouted over the panicked roar that had begun to sweep the crowd. “Attention! We need to evacuate the building as quickly and calmly as possible. There is a courtyard one block to the east where I want everyone to head. Keep your heads down and move as fast as possible.”

There was a breath of silence, and then the entire ballroom seemed to move at once. Waves of people surged to the three doors that led out of the building, and Jim was proud to see the members of his crew instantly stepping up to guide people out and calm the panic. Bones knelt next to one woman unfortunate enough to be caught under one of the orbs and helped her to free herself and stand, one arm looped over the doctor’s shoulder. Jim caught his gaze for a moment and nodded, and Bones returned the gesture before becoming lost in the crowd. 

A soft groan tore Jim’s gaze away from the crowd and toward the small stage where the band had been performing. It seemed that the stage wasn’t quite as strong as the rest of the floor and it had collapsed partially, trapping two of the players. Jim rushed over, deftly avoiding the scattered shards as he did so.

One of the men had caught his leg between the stage floor and one of the glass orbs, although the orb by some miracle hadn’t completely shattered and the other was pinned between several fallen instruments and the stage. 

Working quickly to shift the instruments aside, Jim freed the latter musician first who declared his thanks before helping Jim roll the orb off of the other man. Once both of them were on their feet once more, he set off to the other side of the quickly-emptying ballroom where he could see Scotty directing a group of people out of the open doors that led to the garden.

“Does the garden have an opening to the street?” he asked as soon as he was close enough, grunting out the last word as he shoved a fallen table to the side to clear more room for the panicked civilians.

“Aye. There are a small path and gate. It’s not big, but I figure if this place comes down, the trees in the garden’ll at least give us some cover,” the Scotsman replied with a small shrug. 

Jim nodded, his eyes scanning the crowd. “Have you seen the rest of the crew? I know Bones and Uhura are out already.”

“You, me, and Grewing are the last ones, I think, and his group is almost out. Wait—” Scotty paused, a frown twisting his lips. “I haven’t seen Commander Spock. He was in the back corner with the prince’s husband before the orbs fell.”

All of a sudden, Jim’s heart was in his throat. He had managed to stay calm for the last few minutes, but now it felt like the ground was shaking underneath him and threatening to swallow him whole. He had to find Spock.

“Alright. You get these people out of here, Scotty, and then leave. I’ll be right behind you once I find Spock.” 

Jim barely registered Scotty’s nod as he began picking his way across the ballroom. Drops of blood mixed with various drinks and smears of food on the floor, but there was far less of it than Jim knew there could be. So far, there hadn’t been any casualties. So far.

After what seemed to be an eternity but was likely only a handful of seconds, Jim was at the other end of the ballroom. This end was covered in more shard of glass than the rest of the room had been, and the panic in his throat rose with every second that passed. Where was Spock? Surely Jim should have seen him by—

“Ca—Captain?” The word was weak and broken by a cough, but Jim heard it as clearly as a shout and turned toward the sound. There, half-buried under two separate orbs and the remains of a small table, was Spock.

Jim was at his side before he could even register deciding to move.

“Stay still, Spock,” he ordered, forcing down his panic. There was green blood pooling on the cracked ground under Spock, but he couldn’t see enough of the Vulcan to tell where the blood was coming from. “I need to find a way to get these orbs off of you safely.”

“No.” A surprisingly strong hand gripped his forearm, yanking Jim’s gaze away from the orb that had pinned Spock’s legs. “You must leave me. Lord Tyr is somewhere nearby, and he must be escorted to safety.” 

Jim shook his head, unable to look at the resigned certainty in Spock’s eyes. “I can get you both out, Spock,” he assured, ignoring the trembling in his own voice. “There’s no need to play hero right now.” As he spoke, the support beam a few meters to their right creaked loudly, and he shoved at the orb again. It refused to budge.

The panic was blurring his vision now. He had to get Spock out of here. He couldn’t let the Vulcan die like this, at a wedding of all places. He couldn’t leave him. The hand on his arm squeezed tightly, and Jim felt comfort bleeding into his skin from the touch even through the gloves that Spock wore. 

He forced his gaze up to Spock’s and saw that the Vulcan was smiling quietly. “It is logical, Captain,” he said, his voice nothing more than a whisper now. The support gave another ominous creak.

There were tears in Jim’s eyes. He could feel them stinging, threatening to fall. Stars, why did it have to be Spock? Of all the people in the giant ballroom, why did it have to be his First Officer who was trapped and bleeding? What had Jim done to the universe to deserve this? 

He shook his head again, but he couldn’t force any words past the lump in his throat. He silently prayed that Spock wouldn’t say it again, prayed his First Officer would let go of his unflinching logic for just a few minutes and let Jim be selfish, but he knew better. And he knew he would listen.

“Jim.” His heart clenched at the sound of his name. “You must go.” 

Jim swallowed thickly and forced a smile on his face. “I’m coming back for you, alright? So just hang tight.” He could barely get the words out; his heart was shattering as he pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll be right back, Spock.”

The Vulcan nodded weakly and let go of Jim’s arm, his hand falling limply to his side. Despite the pain that Jim was certain Spock was in, there was a tiny, satisfied smile on his face. Jim gazed at him for a moment longer before forcing himself to turn away and search the nearby rubble for Lord Tyr. 

It took almost half a minute—a dangerously long amount of time that was punctuated with a concerning number of groans and creaks from the supports around him—to locate the Ylliarite. One of his legs was caught under a fallen table, and the man was unconscious. Jim managed to push the table aside and lift Tyr in his arms.

The supports let out another loud sound of protest, and Jim’s gaze flitted between the nearby exit and the rubble where he knew Spock was trapped. He had to get them both out of here, but with Tyr unconscious and Spock likely unable to walk, he wouldn’t be able to transport both of them at once. Letting out a curse, he hefted the Ylliarite and moved as quickly as he could to the nearest exit, his heart feeling like it was being ripped from his chest with every step.

A minute later, Jim was stumbling through the doors toward the crowd outside that was moving away from the building and toward the courtyard as he had ordered. Someone in the crowd glanced back and saw him, and then an instant later Bones and a couple of other people were running toward him. One of them took Tyr from him, and Jim spun back toward the ballroom.

A hand on his arm kept him from sprinting back to the building, to Spock. “Whoa there, what do you think you’re doing?” Bones asked, steadying Jim with his other hand on his shoulder. “The building’s gonna come down any second.”

“Spock,” Jim gasped out, trying to free himself from the doctor’s death grip. “I’ve got to get to him. I can’t leave him in there!”

Bones’ eyes widened. “Be careful,” he admonished and then gave Jim a gentle shove forward. He yelled back to the crowd for volunteers to help, but Jim barely heard him. He had to get back to Spock.

He was halfway back to the ballroom when the building gave a shuddering groan and then began to cave in.

“No!” The yell ripped itself from his throat as he dashed forward with a sudden burst of speed. He was a few steps from the open door—he could see inside, could see the overturned table he knew Spock was a meter behind—when the ceiling shattered completely and the entrance was buried under a couple of hundred kilograms of glass. 

Jim froze in his tracks, his eyes wide as horror curled in his stomach and his mind stubbornly refused to acknowledge what had just happened. Then he felt someone at his shoulder and he heard a sigh heavy with pain. “I’m sorry, Jim,” Bones said, and Jim knew without looking that the doctor had bowed his head. “There was nothing more you could have done.”

Those words snapped Jim out of his terrified paralysis. “I can’t leave him in there, Bones!” he half-yelled half-sobbed, spinning to face his friend with tears in his eyes. “I told him I would come back for him; I promised him!”

The doctor shook his head slowly. “You know what Spock would say to that; it’s not logical. There’s nothing you can do for him, Jim, and it’s up to you to keep the rest of these people safe. We can look for Spock’s...body once we know it’s safe, but right now, we’re a bunch of sitting ducks out here.”

Spock’s body. Jim refused to believe the implication in those words. Spock couldn’t be...gone. It wasn’t possible. Not Spock, the logical, perfect Vulcan First Officer. The man who always had a plan for everything, the man Jim had wanted to ask to dance just a few hours ago. It just wasn’t possible.

But the weight settling on Jim’s heart and shoulders told him that Bones was right about one thing—these people were his responsibility now, and he needed to make sure that they were safe. It was what Spock would want him to do. But the second they were, he promised himself fiercely, he would come back for Spock. 

He would always come back for Spock.

. . .

“I’m fine, Bones. Now, can I please go?” Jim requested, not bothering to put the effort into making his voice sound anything other than empty. It had been three hours and thirteen minutes since the ballroom had collapsed and he had left Spock buried under the rubble. He had taken High King Hamzill and his family aboard the Enterprise and transported all of the rest of the attendees to a safe location before nearly collapsing and being forced to the med bay by his friend. 

But Bones had used his dermal regenerator and fixed him up, so he was fine now. And he wanted to leave.

Bones let out a sigh and put down the PADD he was holding. “I want to say know and keep you in here awhile longer, but physically you’re fine now that I got the glass out of your knees.” He shook his head, and his voice took on a softer tone, the closest the man could come to comforting. “I’d like to give you a psych eval, but I know you’d disobey any orders I gave for you to rest, so I won’t even bother. Besides, they need you up on the Bridge.”

Jim shook his head. “I’m not going to the Bridge, Bones. I’m going back down there.” He was already swinging his legs over the edge of the biobed as he spoke, and there was a determination in his eyes that practically dared Bones to argue with him. 

His friend gazed at him for several moments, a mixture of sadness and understanding in his face before nodding. “I figured you’d say somethin’ like that. Lieutenant Deckendorf and a half dozen security members are waiting for you in the transporter room.” He swallowed. “Bring him back, Jim.”

“I will.”

. . .

Spock was gone.

It had taken Jim and the security team nearly two hours to clear the glass away from the door enough for them to slip through. Inside, it looked like a warzone, although there was a thankfully small amount of blood. Everyone had managed to get out before the ceiling had come down, everyone except Spock.

Jim made his way over to where Spock had been trapped, despair and hope warring in his gut as he nimbly avoided the fallen orbs and hunks of glass. When he rounded the table that Spock had been trapped behind, however, the Vulcan was gone.

Jim blinked at the spot for a few moments, unable to believe his eyes. Was he in the wrong spot? No, he could see the green stains on the marble floor from Spock’s blood, the little droplets that still clung to the jagged edge of one of the fallen orbs. Spock had been lying here when Jim had abandoned him, but somehow, he was gone now.

The first thing he felt once that sunk in was joy. Spock was alive! That joy was quickly tempered by fear, however. Spock had been in no condition to move on his own, much less to move as quickly as he would have had to in order to escape the collapse of the roof. That meant that someone had moved him, taken him, and now Jim had no idea where his First Officer was.

“Kirk to Enterprise,” he barked into his communicator, his mind already buzzing with a hundred possibilities.

“Uhura here, Captain.”

“Mr. Spock is not among the rubble.” He heard an audible sigh from the other end. “However, I believe he was taken by a hostile party, likely whoever was behind the destruction of the ballroom. Coordinate with Ensign Checkov and begin scanning the planet for Spock. I’m sure the ensign will figure out a way to isolate his signature from the rest of the planet.”

There was a stunned pause and then, “Yes sir, Captain. We’ll find him.”

Jim flipped the communicator closed and let out a heavy sigh. He allowed his eyes to slip closed for a few seconds and forced himself to breathe, to settle the panic in his gut. Spock was alive. Technically, he knew that it was possible the captors had decided to kill Spock at some point in the last six hours, but he decided to hold on to his hope; it was all he had right now. If he let go of that, he would fall apart, and not even Bones would be able to put him back together again. 

Slowly, he opened his eyes again and turned to the security team that had fanned out behind him. “Alright men, we need to search every centimeter until we find some hint that will tell us where Commander Spock has been taken. Move carefully, but be quick. We don’t know how much time he has.”

A chorus of ‘aye captain!’s met his orders, and within a minute, the men were combing through the rubble surrounding the area where Spock had been. As he searched, Jim silently prayed to whoever was listening that they would find something; he wouldn’t stop until they did. ‘I’m coming, Spock,’ he thought, a flash of possessiveness flooding him. ‘I won’t let them keep you from me.’

. . .

Spock’s senses returned to him slowly as he woke. The first to return was, oddly enough, his sense of smell. Wherever he was smelled of dampness, not enough to be moldy, but enough that he doubted he was being held in a modern structure if the structure was artificially made at all.

The next sense that came was his sense of touch. He could feel rough stone beneath his back and legs, and he realized that he was lying down. The stone was cool and dug into his back through his uniform. The instant he realized his discomfort, his pain receptors burst to life, and he had to exercise a shameful amount of his concentration in order to keep himself from crying out.

His legs were badly damaged from what he could feel. His right was likely broken or at least badly sprained, and his left seemed to bear a number of deep cuts. His arms were similarly sliced, although none of his wounds seemed to be bleeding any longer. His abdominal region ached and was likely badly bruised, but in total, his wounds did not seem to be life-threatening at the moment, although the possibility of infection in a damp area such as the one where he currently resided was quite high.

Once he managed to bring his pain down to a manageable level, his sense of hearing returned, the sound of water plinking down into a small pool a few meters to his right reconfirming his earlier assessment of the dampness of where he was lying. That, combined with the rough nature of the ground beneath him told him that he was not, in fact, in an artificially constructed building but rather a cave of some sort.

Finally, Spock opened his eyes. The cave was dark but spacious. If he were capable, he would be able to stand with little trouble, and the space seemed to be about the size of his quarters aboard the Enterprise. Unlike his quarters, however, there was a barred door blocking his exit. 

For several minutes, he simply regarded the space around him, his mind endeavoring to recall how he had arrived here. He remembered the lights crashing down in the ballroom and pinning him before he could manage to move aside. There had been chaos for a few minutes and he had tried to escape but had soon realized that he was unable to do so unassisted. Then, Jim had been at his side.

The man had appeared in an instant, hands scrambling over the orbs that pinned him in an attempt to move them. The amount of concern, of worry in his eyes, had been touching, but Spock had stopped his movements and quietly asked him to leave him. The pain in the man’s eyes had been almost too much for Spock to bear, but the sounds of the supports around them giving way had pushed him to convince his captain to save Lord Tyr and escape. A small smile crossed his face. The last thing he remembered was the sight of his captain, a mere blur of gold in the chaos, disappearing out the door of the ballroom. Jim was safe.

That did not answer the question of where he was and how he had been saved from the building, however. His accommodations told him that his rescuers were not members of the Enterprise, nor were they likely to be members of High King Hamzill’s court. Insurgents, perhaps? It was a logical option, but Spock would need more information to be certain.

Until then, it would be wise for him to conserve his energy.

. . .

Three days later, there was still no sign of Spock. They had scanned and rescanned the planet, but they had come up with nothing. At the end of the second day, Chekov had turned to Jim with anguish on his face, his eyes asking the question his mouth refused to form. Jim had given him the best smile he could manage and spouted something about Spock being too stubborn to die and ordered him to keep searching, but on the inside, he was beginning to doubt that. 

They had found a dropped insignia when they had searched the ballroom that pointed to an anti-Federation terrorist group as being responsible for both the destruction of the building and Spock’s kidnapping, but the group had stayed silent since then and despite both the Enterprise and the Ylliarite forces searching for them, they had found nothing. Not a single hint of where Spock was.

Bones had kicked him off of the Bridge a few hours ago, claiming that five consecutive shifts on duty weren’t healthy, and now Jim was wandering the ship, unable to stay still for long. The doctor had suggested that he get some sleep, but he had dismissed the suggestion in an instant. He could barely blink without seeing Spock’s face, and he knew that the only thing awaiting him when he fell asleep was a nightmare that would somehow be worse than the one he was already living. No, he wouldn’t, couldn’t sleep until he found Spock and brought him home.

He was shaken from his thoughts by the sound of a deep voice calling his name. He turned to see Prince Rafee and Lord Tyr standing in the doorway to the observation lounge—Jim didn’t even remember walking this far, much less the turbolift he would have had to have taken to even reach this deck from the bridge—somber expressions on their marbled faces.

“Captain Kirk,” Lord Tyr repeated, his voice quietly firm. “Please, sit with us. You deserve to rest for a few minutes.”

Jim wanted to decline, but something in the man’s face stopped him. Instead, he nodded wordlessly and followed the pair as they stepped into the observation lounge and led the way to a pair of couches on the far end of the room. Jim sat gracelessly, watching with dim eyes as the prince and his husband sat across from him, their legs pressed together despite the fact that there is ample room for the both of them.

The silence between them lasts for several moments, but Jim was too tired to do anything about it. He didn’t have the energy to observe whatever the proper protocol is for talking to a prince and his husband right now, so he waited until Lord Tyr spoke.

“I never thanked you for saving my life, Captain,” he says finally, and Jim hears a note of something other than gratitude in his voice. He is about to shake his head and tell him that thanks weren’t necessary—he has enough sense to do that, at least—when the man continues. “You reunited me with my love at the cost of your own. I cannot convey the depth of my gratitude nor the depth of my regret. I am sorry, Captain,” he stated, his gemstone-like eyes sparkling with emotion that was echoed in his soft voice. As he finished speaking, he swallowed, and his husband squeezed his hand and looked at him with such love in his gaze that Jim’s heart clenched painfully.

“Do not apologize, Lord Tyr, and don’t thank me,” he said softly, not quite meeting the man’s gaze. “It was Commander Spock who told me where you were and asked me to rescue you before freeing him.” He closed his eyes for an instant, forcing the image of Spock’s calm eyes out of his mind.

Tyr bowed his head. “Then I owe you both my life. Have you had any success in locating the extremist group?”

Jim swallowed thickly. “No, and we haven’t managed to get a lock on Spock’s signature either. My other science officers think that there is too much interference between the charged nature of your upper atmosphere and the number of people on the planet to isolate Spock, and if the extremists are holding him somewhere that’s shielded or underground, it’s going to be even harder.” He could hear the exhaustion and despair in his own voice. He had been holding onto hope for as long as he could for the sake of himself and his crew, but saying it out loud made him realize just how bad the odds against Spock were.

There was a somber silence for several moments, and then Prince Rafee spoke up for the first time since they had walked into the lounge, a spark in his dark eyes. “When I conversed with Commander Spock in the early evening of the ball, he mentioned that his blood contained a particular compound that was the result of his half-Vulcan half-human nature and exceedingly rare. Could it be possible for your scientists to program the scanners to search for specific concentrations of this compound?” he asked, his eyebrows drawn together thoughtfully. “The signal from the scanners could be boosted by the relay at the Ylliar Center for Space Sciences, which would increase the scanners’ ability to penetrate shields and rock.”

Jim blinked at the prince for a few moments, his tired brain absorbing the information much slower than it normally would. When what the man was suggesting finally sunk in however, he jumped from the couch, eyes wide. “Yes! Yes, that could work! Can you get some of your scientists up here to instruct my crew on what to do to sync up with the relay?” he asked in a rush. Finally, they might be able to do something instead of just sit here and wait for a miracle.

The prince nodded, rising from the couch as well. “You have all of the resources of Ylliar III at your disposal, Captain. We owe you that much.” Prince Rafee squeezed his husband’s hand again. “I will have them beam up immediately.”

. . .

Four hours later, Jim was dashing through a crumbling fortress. He hardly saw the mossy stone around him as he ran; his entire focus was on the people who dared to stand between him and Spock.

Lord Tyr was at Jim’s side as they shot their way into the compound, a force of combined Enterprise members and a Ylliarite special forces squad at their heels. Their phasers were set on stun—as angry as Jim was he would never waste so many lives when there was another option—and the enemy dropped around them as they pushed deeper into the compound. 

After ten minutes of searching through winding cave tunnels, Jim found what looked to be an ancient dungeon even deeper underneath the fortress. The man guarding the door didn’t have time to scream as Jim shot him in the chest and plucked the keys from his body as he crumpled. The stairs and hall beyond were dark, but Jim felt himself being pulled deeper and deeper, heedless of the lack of light. Finally, he stopped in front of a barred door at the very end of the hallway.

There, lying flat on his back with his eyes closed, was Spock. His uniform was in tatters and one of his legs was bent at a weird angle, but his chest was rising and falling with steady breaths. He was alive. He was alive!

Jim fumbled with the keys, his fingers shaking so much he had to try the same key three times before the lock finally clicked and he was able to yank the door open. He shoved his phaser into his belt without a second thought before bending down and scooping Spock into his arms, mindful of his wounds. The Vulcan let out a quiet groan at the movement, and the sound went straight to Jim’s heart. How had he let this happen?

“I told you I’d come back for you, Spock,” he whispered, his lips hovering a few centimeters above one of Spock’s ears. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

A moment later, Jim heard the sound of a dozen booted feet in the corridor outside, and Lord Tyr appeared outside of the cell door. “Praise the Sky,” he murmured upon seeing Spock safely in Jim’s arms. Then, in a louder voice, he said, “I will have two of my men escort you back to your ship, Captain. The rest of us will remain behind and clear out any remaining terrorists.”

Jim nodded his thanks and stepped past him, shifting Spock in his arms. It was time to go home.

. . .

This time, when Spock awoke, his senses returned to him all at once. He could feel a light sheet covering his skin, could smell the scarp scent of anesthetic, could hear the low hum of whirring machines, could taste the sterileness in his mouth that came from being fed through an IV. He was laying in the Enterprise sickbay. For a few moments, he allowed that reality to sink in, not bothering to suppress the feeling of happiness that rose steadily in him until it seemed to fill his entire being. Then, he opened his eyes.

The sickbay was bright, as it always seemed to be whenever he awoke from his unconsciousness, and it was empty. Empty, that was, except for the lightly snoring man that was sitting in a chair by his bed.

For a few moments, Spock simply gazed at his captain. The man had looked better—his uniform was wrinkled, his hair was greasy, he was far too thin, and there were bags under his eyes even as he slept—but he was here, by his side. Even if Spock had wanted to, he wouldn’t have been able to smother the myriad of feelings that realization caused to well up within him.

As Spock examined Jim, the door to the sickbay hissed open and Doctor McCoy stepped through, PADD in hand. He didn’t look surprised to see Spock awake, which meant he had likely been monitoring his vitals from his office. 

“It’s good to see you up, Spock,” he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. There had been a time when Spock had found the doctor’s unpolished manner concerning, but now he was almost comforted it. “You’ve been unconscious for a little over ten hours.”

Spock nodded his understanding and pushed himself up into a sitting position on his bed. The doctor grumbled something under his breath but didn’t stop him. Once he was sitting up, Spock glanced back over at his captain and saw for the first time the number of empty coffee cups scattered at the base of his chair.

“I told him that much caffeine was a bad idea, especially after not eating for three days, but he wanted to be awake when you woke up. I tried to convince him to at least take a nap, but he wouldn’t leave, and I didn’t have the heart to kick him out,” the doctor explained, his voice uncharacteristically soft as he gazed at his friend.

This wasn’t the first time that Spock had woken to find the Captain by his side in sickbay, but this was different. This time, when that warm feeling began to spread throughout him he knew what name to give it. It went far beyond simple loyalty or respect or even friendship. It was something deeper that somehow combined all of those things and more.

“Your wounds are healed for the most part—your leg’s probably going to be sore for a few days—but I want to give you another checkup before you go,” Doctor McCoy declared, briefly interrupting his wandering thoughts. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Spock nodded, his eyes never leaving Jim’s sleeping face.

Once the doctor had left the room, Spock reached out to Jim, his fingers hesitating a few centimeters over the man’s arm. Finally, he lowered his hand and gently shook his captain. “Captain, it is illogical for you to remain sleeping in an uncomfortable position when your quarters would provide more adequate rest,” he admonished quietly. Those weren’t the words he wanted to say to this wonderful man, but they were the ones his mouth formed, and he allowed them. Now was not the time nor place for the confession he desired to make.

For a moment, the captain didn’t move. Then, as Spock gently shook him once more, his eyes cracked open and blinked up at him slowly. An instant later, they widened, and Jim nearly fell out of his chair in shock. Spock steadied him with one hand on his shoulder, a faint smile on his lips.

“Spock! You’re awake!”

The Vulcan nodded, the smile growing ever so slightly. “Indeed. Doctor McCoy has stated that he will release me as soon as he performs one more assessment of my physical health. It seems my broken leg has mostly healed.”

As he spoke, Spock saw the elation in Jim’s face slowly fade away, and by the time he had finished, the man was looking at the ground, his fingers fidgeting with the edges of his sleeves. To another, the slump of Jim’s shoulders might have merely indicated exhaustion, but Spock could read heavy pain and guilt there.

“Stars, Spock,” he murmured to the ground. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have left you there. I should have found a way to get both of you out.”

Spock shook his head, ignoring the pressure that rose to the forefront of his mind as he did so. “No, Captain. Do not apologize. You saved both my life and the life of Lord Tyr, and I could ask for nothing more,” he said quietly, squeezing Jim’s shoulder in a gesture he himself had often found soothing. Still, Jim didn’t look up, and Spock was about to take a different—and quite possibly reckless—approach when the door slid open and Doctor McCoy reappeared, this time armed with several more instruments. 

The instant the doctor stepped in, Jim shrugged off Spock’s hand and stood. He flashed Spock a tight smile and nodded to McCoy before slipping out of the room, not giving either of them a chance to stop him or ask where he was going. Had Spock been more fully human he might have sighed at the man’s distressing and illogical behavior. As it was, he simply sat up straighter and turned his focus to the doctor. 

For a moment, the man didn’t move, but then he grumbled something under his breath and shook his head. “Alright, Spock. Let’s make sure that hobgoblin body of yours is doing everything it’s supposed to.”

. . .

Jim barely felt the pain in his legs as he ran. After he had left the medbay he had been tired but also too wired to go back to sleep, so he had decided to hit the gym. It was later in the evening, so the room was mostly empty when he arrived, and before long he was its only inhabitant. 

He wasn’t sure how long he had been running for. He couldn’t really feel his legs anymore, which might have concerned him at a different time, but right now, that lack of feeling was just what he wanted. Now if only he could get that numbness to transfer to his heart…

When he had rescued Spock from those terrorists, his only emotion had been relief. Spock was alive and that was all that mattered. Then had come the waiting. He was used to waiting, but that didn’t make sitting next to the Vulcan’s side, watching each slow breath he took, any easier. It hurt. It hurt to see his First Officer, his friend, lying on a biobed, and it hurt even more to know that he was the reason the Vulcan was there.

Bones had tried to tell him that there was nothing he could have done, but Jim didn’t believe that. He was the captain, and that meant that there was always something more he could have done. He was responsible for every single life aboard his ship—and several who were not—and that included the life of his First Officer. But the guilt he felt was more than the guilt of a concerned captain, and maybe that was why it hurt so much.

There were no Starfleet regulations preventing a romantic relationship between a captain and their first officer, but there were warnings and not-so-subtle suggestions to find love elsewhere. Of course, Jim had never been one for following all of the rules. It was ironic that the one rule he probably should have followed wasn’t even a proper rule. Either way, his heart had decided to ignore it.

He was in love with Spock.

He had known that before—months before—the ballroom ceiling had come crashing down, but in that moment when Jim thought that Spock was dead, he realized just how much it would hurt to not have Spock in his life and it scared him. He wasn’t afraid of rejection—well, that wasn’t entirely true, but he figured Spock would at least take a chance with him. He...he didn’t know what he was afraid of. But there was something gripping his heart like a vice, and seeing Spock wake up in the medbay had only made it worse.

Before Jim could analyze his emotions any further, the door to the gym opened, and a familiar figure stepped through.

. . .

As soon as the doctor had declared him fit enough to leave the sickbay—although McCoy had put him on mandatory medical leave for the next two days—Spock had begun attempting to locate his captain. After checking the man’s quarters and receiving no answer, Spock asked the computer to locate Jim. The answer hardly surprised him, although it did cause his chest to tighten in concern.

There had been several times, usually after particularly rough missions, that Spock had found his captain in the gym, pushing himself to the very limits of his physical capabilities and beyond. They had never discussed the habit, but Spock understood. It was a question of control. As the captain of the Enterprise, there was much that Jim controlled, but there was even more that he did not, that he could not. Random chance and the actions of others, things that often impacted their missions for the worse. His habit was a way of reminding himself that there were things he could still control. 

With that in mind, Spock made his way to the gym as quickly as he could. When he reached the door, however, he hesitated. Something had shifted in his relationship with the captain. He didn’t understand the nuances of the change, but he knew that there had been one, and the analytical part of him told him that the best course of action would be to wait for Jim to approach him. A scientist observed before interacting. The rest of him—his heart—told him to act and act quickly. It was just a feeling—there were no facts or even theories to support it—but Spock knew that if he did not act now he would forever regret it.

He took a deep breath and regulated his suddenly swift heartbeat and then ordered the computer to open the door.

. . .

For several moments, neither of them spoke. Jim stopped the treadmill, but he didn’t get off. Instead, he leaned against the handlebars, his limbs suddenly feeling as if they were made of lead. Stars, he probably looked awful, but Spock didn’t seem to notice or care.

“Capt—Jim,” he greeted, nodding slightly. If Jim weren’t so suddenly exhausted he might have raised an eyebrow. So this was a Jim conversation? Hmm. After a moment, Jim realized Spock was waiting for an acknowledgment of some kind, so he raised one hand and gestured for Spock to join him.

Spock’s steps were oddly hesitant. In all the time that Jim had known him, Spock had never been a hesitant man. He had been cautious, he had been polite, he had even been differential, but he had never been hesitant. Still, before long the Vulcan was standing a meter or so in front of him, on the edge of one of the sparring mats.

Jim could feel something in the air between them. Granted, he often felt something between them, but he typically chalked it up to his own daydreaming mind. This time, he knew that Spock could feel it too. And that scared him.

The silence between them grew, and Jim began to mentally curse himself. Once again, he was being a coward. How was it that being around Spock brought out the worst in him? He was never brave enough or fast enough or respectful enough or—

“Jim?” There was concern in Spock’s voice, but Jim heard it distantly, as if through water. “Are you okay?”

Suddenly, Jim realized that he was shaking. Not just his arms or his legs, but his entire body, vibrating violently as if he were one of Scotty’s machines and had just been pushed into overdrive. He tried to flash Spock a reassuring smile, but he couldn’t get his heavy lips to twist upward, or at all. He opened his mouth to speak and immediately gagged, bile rising in the back of his throat. 

Spock stepped forward, and Jim dimly registered the Vulcan placing a hand on his arm to steady him and saying something about going to the medbay, but his mind was too fuzzy to really process it. All he managed was a short jerk of his head—there was no way he was going to go see Bones after blatantly ignoring all of the doctor’s suggestions that he rest—and then he was falling.

Falling, falling, falling.

The back of his mind told him that he never hit the ground, but before he could work out what that meant, the blackness took him.

. . .

Spock watched in horror as Jim’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. In an instant, the man began to crumple, and Spock forced himself forward, wrapping his arms under his captain’s, refusing to allow him to hit the ground. His skin was clammy and coated with a thin layer of sweat, and as Spock gently shifted the man in his arms he concluded what had happened.

For the three days that Spock was in the custody of the terrorists, Jim had likely not received much, if any, sleep. It was also probable that the man had not eaten or consumed enough liquids to keep his body in functioning order. Then, he had consumed a large amount of caffeine in a relatively short amount of time. Before his body had been able to adjust to the change, he had pushed it beyond the edge of his limits as he so often did. And now he was paying the price.

For a moment, Spock considered bringing Jim to the medbay where Doctor McCoy could feed him the necessary nutrients and fluids through an IV, but he quickly dismissed the idea. Jim’s condition was not life-threatening in any way, and Spock knew that the man had no desire to wake in sickbay, a feeling that Spock could understand. 

His decision—illogical though it was—made, Spock shifted his grip on Jim once more before exiting the gym and making his way to the man’s quarters.

The hallways were empty, something that Spock was immensely grateful for. Although he was not ashamed of aiding his captain and friend, he had a feeling that the other man would not appreciate the rumors that the sight of them would no doubt cause. 7.236 minutes later, Spock ordered the door to Jim’s quarters to open—the man had given him the override password several months ago, claiming that he was tired of having to get up to answer the door every time Spock came over for chess—and stepped inside. 

The quarters appeared as if they had not been touched in some time, confirming Spock’s earlier theory. That confirmation caused Spock’s stomach to clench. Jim had neglected his own safety and health in order to search for him and yet the man still believed that he ha somehow failed.

Spock ordered the lights to thirty percent and gently laid Jim in his bed. The man sighed in his sleep as his head touched the pillow, and he automatically shifted into a more comfortable position. His face was peaceful in sleep, and Spock desperately wished that it hadn’t taken such an extreme measure for his ashayam—he could no longer deny that the word reflected what he felt—to find the peace he needed. 

Shaking his head, Spock tore his gaze away from Jim’s face and busied himself with removing the man’s running shoes and socks and pulling up the blanket to cover him. His uniform and boots were likely still in the gym’s changing room, but those could be retrieved later. For now, Spock did not wish to leave Jim’s side. 

Once he was certain Jim was comfortable, he sent a message to Doctor McCoy explaining the man’s current state and requesting that he be placed on medical leave for the next day to allow him time to recover. The doctor responded a minute later, and although Spock could detect a certain level of irritation in the man’s words, the overall tone was one of understanding. Satisfied that he had done all he could, Spock settled to the ground at the side of Jim’s bed and closed his eyes. He would meditate while Jim rested, and when the man woke, they would speak.

. . .

The first thought that came to Jim’s mind as he woke was a realization that he was most definitely not in the Enterprise gym. It took him a few more moments before he was able to come to the conclusion that he was laying in bed, his bed, in his quarters. Huh. Then his eyes widened. The only way he could have gotten from the gym to his room was if someone, more specifically Spock, had transported him there. Great. 

Jim rubbed his eyes and pushed himself into a sitting position and very nearly passed out again. Stars filled his vision for several moments, but he stubbornly blinked them away. He had to go find Spock and apologize—again. He was about to sing his feet over the edge of the bed when he realized that there was a shape leaning against his bed. He blinked again, forcing his eyes to focus in the semi-darkness. Spock. The shape was Spock, leaning against his bed, eyes closed in either sleep or meditation. 

For a moment, Jim could only gaze at the Vulcan. He looked tired, but if Jim was being honest with himself Spock had looked worse, much worse. In fact, after Bones’ treatments, Spock looked like he could fight a Gorn and win. If he had more sleep.

It was a bad idea, Jim knew that as soon as it popped into his brain, but it was honestly the best one that his tired mind could come up with. And so, Jim leaned over and tapped Spock on the shoulder. The Vulcan started awake instantly, and Jim could see a question on his lips, but he shook his head. There would be time for questions and talking later.

“The floor isn’t the most comfortable place to sleep,” he said, grinning slightly. “Come here; I’ll make room for you.” Spock blinked a few times, and Jim couldn’t help the small feeling of triumph that rose within him. A speechless Spock, that was a first.

“Don’t give me any of that touch-telepath stuff; my brain’s too tired to do very much thinking, and I don’t really care if you see it,” he said before he could give himself time to process what he was saying. “It’s not an order or anything, but you’re tired and I’m tired and I’m sure Bones has us both on medical leave by now, so we don’t have shifts to worry about waking up for.”

For several long moments, Spock stared at him in the semi-darkness, and Jim was certain that he would argue or maybe just get up and leave, but then he nodded. No words, just a nod, and at that moment some kind of understanding passed between them that had nothing to do with telepathy. They would talk later, but for now, they would just sleep.

Jim shifted to the side of the bed and turned on his side, his back to Spock. A few moments later, he heard Spock remove his boots and felt the bed dip under his weight as he climbed in. The bed was barely big enough for both of them, with only a sliver of space between their backs, but Jim found that he didn’t mind. He tossed one of the blankets—one of the unspoken benefits of being captain was plenty of extra bedding—to Spock. Then, as he was falling back to sleep, he remembered that Spock’s quarters were typically much warmer than his own and ordered the computer to raise the temperature a few degrees.

“No arguments, Spock,” he mumbled, already half-asleep. “Just go to sleep.”

Spock didn’t reply aloud, but Jim thought he could feel some of the tension bleed out of the Vulcan. He thought about saying something, but the call of sleep was far more seductive. He surrendered to it, and within a few minutes, he was fast asleep.

. . .

When Spock woke, he was alone in the bed, although he distinctly remembered falling to sleep to the steady sound of Jim’s breathing. The room, too, was empty. Instantly, panic began to set in. He should not have accepted Jim’s offer. The man had been tired, not thinking clearly. Now he obviously regretted his offer and—

The door to the ‘fresher opened, and Jim stepped through, and Spock’s thoughts stopped their downward spiral. His hair was damp from his shower and his sweatpants and t-shirt sticking to his skin in places where his body had not been completely dried before he put the clothes on. There was a gentle smile pulling at his lips.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice softer than usual but still holding that same cheer.

“Good morning,” Spock replied, standing from the bed and self-consciously straightening his shirt. Jim saw his movements, and his grin widened but he didn’t comment on them.

“You hungry?” the man asked as he made his way over to the replicator on the side of the room. “Bones came by an hour or so ago and forced me to eat a few protein bars and drink a whole pitcher of water, but I could use some real food.” Spock didn’t answer, still taking in the man’s appearance and his seeming comfort in their situation, but Jim didn’t seem to mind. A minute later, he turned back to Spock, holding a bowl in each hand.

“It’s oatmeal,” he explained, gesturing with one bowl toward the table. Spock took a seat—the same place he often sat when they played chess—and accepted the bowl gratefully. “My mother used to make it for me whenever I got sick. Said it would stick to my bones. It’s not logical, but it sure does work.”

Spock nodded, swallowing a bite. “My mother holds similar beliefs about several Terran dishes,” he said quietly. He wasn’t sure why they were both speaking so softly, but it seemed appropriate somehow. “I do not believe oatmeal was on the list, however.”

Jim’s small grin reappeared, but aside from that, he didn’t comment. They ate their breakfast in silence, and Spock spent the time trying to think of how to express what he needed to, what he desired to, to Jim. The man still felt guilty; Spock could see it in his eyes. He wanted to explain that guilt had no place in Jim’s heart, that he had done nothing wrong, but every time he tried to assemble the words to say so they felt wrong.

They finished eating at around the same time, their spoons clinking against the side of the bowls with a sense of finality. The sound seemed to linger in the air for several moments longer than it should have, and then they both began to speak.

“Listen, Spock—”

“Jim, you must—”

They both stopped, and Spock nodded for Jim to speak first. His brows pulled together as he thought for a few moments, sitting back in his chair, his hands folded on the table in front of him. Spock waited patiently, and eventually, Jim began to speak once again.

“Something’s changed between us.” Although the man tilted his head in question, the sentence was a statement of fact more than anything else. Nevertheless, Spock nodded. That seemed to take some of the tension out of Jim’s shoulders, and he unclasped his hands, setting them on the table.

“Logically, I know that I did everything I could back on Ylliar III. I didn’t know that the ballroom would collapse that instant, and even if I had known, there was nothing that I could have one to stop it or get both you and Lord Ty out. I know that, but I’m still sorry.” 

He bit his lip and glanced down. When he looked back up, there was something familiar shining in his eyes, and Spock dared to allow himself to hope. “I’m sorry that my best wasn’t enough. I’m sorry that my best will never be enough, not for you. You deserve so much more than me.” He laughed lightly and shook his head. “If I could, I’d give you the universe just to see you smile. But I can’t. But—” He took a deep breath. “But I want to try, Spock.”

For several moments, Spock could barely believe that what his ears and eyes told him he had heard and seen was true. Then, Jim’s hands began to fidget, and Spock’s awe-filled trance was broken. He reached across the table and took one of Jim’s hands in his own and looked into the man’s eyes.

“You have already given me everything I could ever desire,” he declared softly. And it was the truth. “Simply being in your presence is enough, and it would be greedy for me to desire more.” He could feel the heat of a blush turning his ears green. “I only wish that I could provide you with some measure of that same happiness.”

Slowly, a large smile spread across Jim’s face lighting the room in a way that warmed Spock’s chest. “Can you help me push this table aside?” Jim asked, and although the question seemed out of place in the current context, Spock nodded.

Together, they pushed the table to the other side of the room, creating a free space in the middle of the small room. Then, before Spock could ask what the purpose of their actions was, Jim spoke. 

“Computer access audio record file titled ‘Slow Dance’.”

Jim turned back to Spock, his smile more subdued now, with an edge of nervousness at the corners. He held out his hand. “Spock, would you do me the honor of sharing this dance with me?”

In that moment, Spock knew what love was. He had read about it from several sources, heard people recount their own experiences with it, and even seen it in the gazes shared between his mother and father on rare occasions. But now, now he knew that they were all wrong.

Love was James Tiberius Kirk, dressed in an old t-shirt that was ripped at the bottom and ragged sweatpants, holding out his hand, a nervous smile on his face, and looking at Spock like he was somehow the most perfect thing in the universe. It was the way his heart seemed to migrate from his side to his stomach to his chest to his throat. It was the way he nodded and reached out his own hand. It was the sparks that danced in the space between them and then jumped to life when they touched. It was the movement of their bodies, so perfectly in rhythm with one another, as they slowly swayed to the music. It was the way Jim’s lips tasted when he pressed them against his own. It was the words that sprang into his mind and onto his lips before he even registered them. It was the sharp intake of breath from Jim before they were repeated. It was the way they held each other even long after the music faded away. It was Jim, and Spock never wanted to let it go.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, please let me know what you think in the comments! I absolutely love hearing from you! Thanks again to nightlybirdie on Tumblr for the prompt. If you want to read some more Spirky stuff, visit my profile. I've written a few one-shots and one much longer fic. Also, if anyone wants to make some fanart (I would love you forever), you can email me at herenyawrites@gmail.com 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Art For] The Space Between Us](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22496359) by [Marlinsart (Marlinspirkhall)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marlinspirkhall/pseuds/Marlinsart)




End file.
